


Make This Place My Home

by Jobes



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Bromance, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Illnesses, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-06
Updated: 2014-03-19
Packaged: 2018-01-14 17:55:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1275634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jobes/pseuds/Jobes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek looks up, face blank as his eyes narrow slightly. “Scott didn't want you to be alone.”</p><p>“What if I wanted to be left alone?” Stiles asks, but his tone isn't biting or sarcastic. Derek tenses for a second before dropping his shoulders. </p><p>“Is that what you really want?” </p><p>“I don’t… no, it’s not.” Stiles shrugs, shaking his head slightly. It’s really not.</p><p>----------------</p><p>Sick!Stiles fic in which he is officially diagnosed with frontotemporal dementia and his friends and family try desperately to save him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The story kind of starts after the events of episode 3.18 where Stiles is potentially diagnosed with frontotemporal dementia. However, in this universe, there are no foxes, nogitsune, yakuza, etc, so it might end up pretty AU so PREPARE YOURSELF. 
> 
> Also, 2 disclaimers: 
> 
> 1) Some of the dialogue from this chapter is straight from the episode, so all credit goes to the show for those short few lines  
> 2) I did some frontotemporal dementia research, and it turns out it's actually a bit different from how it's been portrayed so far on the show. BUT for continuity for those who watch the show, I will mostly be following the symptoms that Stiles has exhibited in the season thus far. 
> 
> Thanks for clicking and hope you enjoy!

The sunlight streaming in through the open curtains falls softly against his skin, but the warmth dances out of reach. His fingers brush the rough and cracked ivory keys, putting barely enough pressure to produce a faint hum. He starts at the top, gently making his way down. His eyes stay locked on the empty wall in front of him, slightly glazed, but brimming with thoughts. The creak of the bench below him echoes in the silence. His foot on the pedal, he closes his eyes with his fingers arranged and begins to play. Slow, soft chords that glide along the curves of the wall. Hopeful notes. Heartbreaking. Quiet.

_“It’s called frontotemporal dementia.”_

His fingers tense as recent memories join the tune running through his head.

 _“Areas of your brain start to shrink. It’s.. it’s what my mother had.”_   _Scott glances over but quickly looks away._

_“It’s the only form of dementia that can hit teenagers. And…” He takes a deep breath. The words are caught in his throat, almost painful to even whisper. “…there’s no cure.” He looks up and for a moment feels guilty for the hurt in his best friend’s eyes._

He stops playing. He can feel the dampness on his cheeks, but doesn't bother to move his hands away from the keys.

_“Stiles, if you have it… we’ll do something.” Scott looks up, his brows drawn, determined. “I’ll do something.”_

_Stiles nods, but he knows that it's no longer an 'if'. He reaches up as Scott steps forward and clutches him close, his face buried in the soft cloth of his shirt. His fingers tighten, grabbing on for dear life, afraid to let go._

His skin stings at the touch. Taking a deep breath he continues to play. The music fills his empty home, seeping into the gashes of solitude that widen with each passing hour. Scott had left for school a couple of hours ago after spending the night with him and the Sheriff had gone into the office to make up for his recent absences. Stiles didn't even have to ask to take the week off.

Looking around, he catches the sun glinting off the sterile white cap of his prescription medication. The doctor had prescribed some unpronounceable drug to ward off the hallucinations and the night terrors he had been experiencing. So far they were working. At least well enough for the Sheriff to be okay leaving him alone for a couple of hours.

His fingers idly trace the keys out of habit, moving and pressing along out of latent memory. It had been years since he’d last played – his mother had taught him for as long as he could remember, but after her death, he couldn't bring himself to play. Each note reminded him too much of what he had lost. But now… now he felt connected to her and the music was comforting.

“I didn’t know you played.”

The voice startles him to an abrupt halt. 

“I’m a little rusty," he sighs, relaxing. 

“Sounds alright to me.”

Stiles turns to meet Derek’s unwavering gaze. It surprises him just a bit, the tinge of concern hiding behind his eyes, despite slowly getting used to this new side of Derek. He had come back to Beacon Hills with a somewhat different attitude after being away for a few months. Terse, sarcastic, tough-yes, that was all still there. But the little bouts of warmth every now and then. That was different.  

“You never told me what happened with Peter. And your mom,” Stiles says while it's on his mind. Not that they used to talk that much in the first place.

“Another time,” Derek says, stepping into the room and taking a seat across from Stiles. “How are you?”

Stiles tilts his head at that. “I've never heard those words come out of your mouth before.” He grins at Derek’s cocked eyebrow, but continues. “I guess you've heard, then.”

“I've known,” he says softly.

“What? How?”

“You smelled… different when I came back. Something seemed off.”

Stiles frowns. “Why couldn’t Scott—”

“He did. He came to me as soon as I got back and, well, neither of us were sure what it was until…”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah,” Derek repeats quietly.

The silence lengthens, but it isn't uncomfortable.

“So,” he fidgets with one of his shoelaces. “Why are you here?”

Derek looks up, face blank as his eyes narrow slightly. “Scott didn't want you to be alone.”

“What if I wanted to be left alone?” Stiles asks, but his tone isn't biting or sarcastic. Derek tenses for a second before dropping his shoulders.

“Is that what you really want?”

“I don’t… no, it’s not.” Stiles shrugs, shaking his head slightly. _It’s really not._ “It’s just… this isn't right. It's embarrassing even.”

Derek merely lifts an eyebrow in response. 

“This isn't how it's supposed to happen,” Stiles says.

“What do you mean?”

He scrubs a hand through his hair, bringing his knees up. “I've been running around with werewolves for two years now, fighting off man-eating lizards, basically drowning myself for a stupid, magical stump. My childhood friend was slaughtered by a druid and my dad was nearly sacrificed to the gods.” He pauses momentarily and almost laughs at the irony. “Yet, I’m slowly being destroyed by my own body. That’s just… fuck.” He can feel himself shaking, his breath shallow and stilted.

“Stiles…”

He feels the bench shift under Derek’s added weight.

“We can help you. You know this, we can—”

“I know,” Stiles mumbles, unraveling himself and turning slightly towards Derek. “That’s what Scott said, but…” He stops suddenly, unsure of how he had planned to complete the sentence.  

“It’s okay.”

Stiles sighs. “Yeah.”

They sit quietly for awhile, each minute swimming lazily through the golden beams still floating in through the glass.

“Play me something,” Derek says suddenly.

“Really?” He’s greeted by a barely perceptible nod.

“Well, okay, sure.”

Derek closes his eyes as Stiles begins to play. With every note he can hear the other boy’s heartbeat slowly beginning to steady. With each turn in the melody, the stress breaks off from his scent into tiny pieces.  The minutes slow to a syrupy stop as the music fills Derek's senses, but it ends just as quickly as it had began. Opening one eye, he see Stiles resting his head on his arms against the piano. His expression is soft, calmer.

“What was that?”

“A song my mom taught me.”

“It was nice,” he murmurs. Stiles looks at him with a strangled expression before bursting into laughter.

“What?” Derek frowns, quickly standing up and glaring down at him.

“Nothing,” Stiles chuckles. “Nothing, it’s just... Hey, are you hungry?” He glances back at the clock on the wall. “It’s already one o’clock and I haven’t eaten anything yet.”

Derek squints down at him for a second before turning and walking away.

“I’ll drive.”

Still grinning, Stiles scrambles up after him and out the door. The sun feels warm against his skin, and for the first time in a while, the only thing on his mind is food.

“Man, I bet you've missed me,” Stiles says, playfully throwing an arm over Derek’s shoulder. He takes the grunt as an affirmative.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "...it’s not just this… disease or whatever. It’s the magical, bullshit residue that’s still keeping the ‘door’ open and the combination of the two is just, I just really-” He grows quiet. 
> 
> “You don’t know what to do,” Derek finishes for him.
> 
> “Yeah… I guess I don't.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just bear with me, is all I ask.

“Oh my god.” Stiles has a handful of curly fries in his mouth before the tray even hits the table. Derek rolls his eyes, but the slight twitch at the corners of his mouth doesn’t go unnoticed.

“Look at you,” Stiles says, brushing the crumbs from his chin. “It’s a good look, you know.”

“What.” Derek’s expression is careful, brows still and eyes tactful.

“The smiling. Seriously man, you don’t have to be afraid to, you know, be happy every once in a while. I know you've got it in there somewhere.”

That earns Stiles a sneer, but Derek’s jaw unclenches and face relaxes just a bit.

It’s nice. The weather, the food, the smell of burnt burgers. Even Derek’s company is... well, pleasant. 

“Scott tells me you've been having a pretty interesting few weeks,” Derek says between bites of his sandwich.

“Oh you know. Thought I was planting nail bombs all over our school. Sleep walking across the city. Waking up in the middle of the night screaming at the top of my lungs.” He leans back and dangles a particularly curly fry over his mouth. “The usual.”

“Uh huh.”

“We thought it was just the whole, ‘unlocked doors to our minds’ that we brought upon ourselves during that whole Nemeton episode. Some escaped  _fears_." Stiles pauses, eyes strangely distracted by the grease running down Derek’s hands. “Well, Scott and Allison have somehow figured it out.”

“And you?”

“Naturally things just kept getting worse. My dad thought it’d be best to get it checked out given my, you know, family history.” He laughs. It comes out more bitter than intended. "Tried to convince him that it was all just  _wolfy_ business, but no dice." 

Derek nods, tossing his wrapper into the trash. He keeps his eyes low. 

“That’s about it, I guess. Pretty simple.” Stiles fidgets with the food in his hands. 

“You never answered me," Derek says. 

"What?" 

"When I asked how you were doing." 

Stiles gapes at him for a bit, but puts his burger down. 

“I don't really know?" He shrugs, eyes shifting to stare past Derek's head. "It's just... It’s been hard. Different. I've always had to be the sane one, the idea man, the only one able to think _rationally._ These days… sometimes I don’t even know what’s real. I can't tell when I'm dreaming or not. There are times when the words I hear don’t even make any sense. I woke up the other day being dragged through the cold, hard dirt of a coyote den, Derek. Usually it’s me dragging Scott out of the last ditch he’s sniffed his way into. And it’s not just this… disease or whatever. It’s the magical, bullshit residue that’s still keeping the ‘door’ open and the combination of the two is just, I just really...” He grows quiet and picks at the paint peeling off the table.  

“You don’t know what to do,” Derek finishes for him.

“Yeah… I guess not.”

“And you always have a plan.”

“I used to be able to at least _pretend_.”

Derek scoffs at that, but his expression is soft. “Somehow you always pull it off.”

Stiles laughs, looking up from his hands. “That’s really nice, man.” He swears Derek smiles for at least two seconds this time.

They’re silent for a moment. Derek opens his mouth but seems to reconsider at the last minute.

“What?” Stiles raises an eyebrow. 

“...How long?”

“Ah,” Stiles sighs. “Well, physically, nothing to worry about in the near future. Just as pale and weak as usual." He means to laugh at that, at himself, but it somehow doesn't make it out. "Mentally… mentally maybe only months before even the medicati-” He stops suddenly, jamming a hand into his pocket.

_Fuck._

Stiles bolts up, heart beginning to pound, palms starting to sweat. 

“Shit, Derek, we need to get back, I forgot my-oh shit.” He knows he needs to calm down; panic only brings it on faster. But he's never been good at actually  _calming down._

“Stiles. _Stiles_.” Derek’s voice sounds strangely distant. His eyes dart back and forth across the menu behind Derek's head, but the symbols had already begun to replace the names and shift erratically from side to side.

"You're fine, Stiles. Please, look at me.  _Look at me._ " Derek reaches across to grab his wrist, but Stiles recoils out of instinct. He doesn't have time to consider the emotion that passes quickly across Derek's face. 

_Oh god, no, not right now, not out here._

Things had been getting worse. The dreams and stitches in reality had begun to climb into the daylight hours and were no longer isolated to sleep. They weren't just normal hallucinations or night terrors anymore either. The Nemeton experience was intertwining with his actual, _human_ illness and the results were terrifying. It was why he had desperately requested medication, any type of drug the doctors could prescribe that would at least allow for some form of daily normalcy. Medicine that he, of course, left at home. 

“Stiles!”

He sees Derek getting out of his seat and rushing towards him, but panic causes him to step back. Sharp pangs of steel upon concrete echo in his ears as his other senses begin to dull. He feels himself trip over the curb and knows that he’s falling. Anticipation clouds his mind as his head crashes back towards the ground. However, the impact never connects and Stiles is suddenly standing again, and staring into a deep, gray abyss. It takes him a moment to clear his head. 

_God damn it. Not this again._

Looking down, he sees the gray tiles fanning out from under him for miles in all directions. He takes a cautious step forward, his footstep echoing violently off invisible walls.

_How the hell do I get out of here now? I’m not even asleep. At least, I don’t think I am…_

He slaps himself a couple of times. Hard. Tries to scream, but nothing comes out. He shivers slightly, feeling a chill creep silently into his bones.

“ _Stiles_.”

He jolts his head towards the sound and the dread begins to seep in. The voice isn't Derek’s. It's small, high, desperate, and hauntingly familiar. He had hoped that it wouldn't come back. Piece by piece the memories of the place begin to connect. 

“ _Stiles_.”

He hears it again from the opposite way and stumbles out of confusion. Turning towards the sound, he walks carefully forward, the tiles below him inching systematically under his feet. He begins to jog, and then to run as the voice comes again. Closer, this time, but still faint. The ground moves faster underneath, but still the muted landscape stays the same.

He stops abruptly when something catches his eye. He looks to his right where a white body in the distance stands out against the gray. 

“ _Please_.”

_Why does she sound so famili-_

Stiles inhales sharply and it suddenly clicks. He begins running towards the figure, lungs burning as he picks up speed.

“ _Stiles, please_!”

He runs for what feels like seconds, minutes, hours, until a faint glimmer in the air causes him to stop in his tracks.

_What the…_

He reaches out with a tentative hand, which flattens smoothly against the glass. He can see her now, crying, and grabbing at the air in front of her.

_No…_

Stiles traces his hand back and forth, top to bottom, dashes to the side to try to by pass the barrier. Panting, he steps back and his stomach drops. Thick glass walls start to materialize around him, slowly encircling and closing in. Just beyond, she calls out again and Stiles rushes forward, banging a fist against the blockade. He opens his mouth to scream, to yell at the top of his lungs, but his throat seizes and the corners of his eyes begin to sting. He drops down to his knees, his head against the glass, hands helplessly sliding towards the floor.

He hears them now, the hallowed voices of reality trying to reel him back in. He can feel the warmth of strong arms wrapped around his shaking body, but looking down, he sees nothing but black.  


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Hey mom,” he starts, unhooking the photo from its place and sliding down against the opposite wall. “I guess it’s been a while since we’ve talked.”
> 
> He lets the silence seep in, lets the air around him communicate his unspoken thoughts. His fingers begin to tremble and he can feel the sting at the corners of his eyes.
> 
> “I just don’t know what to do anymore, mom.” He inhales deeply and leans his head back against the wall. “One second things are fine, and the next, they’re spiraling out of control. I used to have moments, days, and weeks even, of hell to fight through, but then it would end and there’d be peace, at least for a little while. But this… it’s beginning to take control and I don’t think I’m strong enough.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A quick, but heartfelt, thank you for everyone checking this fic out. I stepped out of the writing game for a little while, but am trying to jump back into it full throttle, and hoping to also go back to some other things I started a while ago. 
> 
> A note for this chapter - part of it was largely inspired by the song "Where Do I Even Start" by Morgan Taylor Reid (from Grey's Anatomy). I encourage you to listen to it before reading. Some of you might notice that one of my old TW fics is based loosely on the lyrics, so I apologize for the redundancy, but after listening to it again for the first time in a long while, it just fit so well with the mood I felt for this chapter and for this fic in general, that I had to get it in there. Hope you guys enjoy!

Stiles wakes up with a heavy arm slung across his back. Wrenching his hand out from under himself, he quickly counts to five and breathes out a sigh of relief. He promptly drops his face deep into the soft pillow and focuses instead on the steady rise and fall of Scott’s breath beside him. The warmth of his body is comforting and familiar, and reminds Stiles of the hundreds of sleepless nights that his best friend has helped him through.

Shifting slightly off his stomach, he realizes that he’s back in his own bed. The movement causes Scott to stir, bringing his arm back and turning to face the other direction. Stiles takes the opportunity to sit up, hanging his legs over the side of the mattress. Faint traces of moonlight flood across his bedroom floor, casting the room in a diffuse glow.

“How is it already ten?” Stiles groans, glancing at the hanging clock. It’s still too early for his dad to be home, but... has he really been out for almost seven hours? Ducking his head between his hands, he wracks his brain for strands of memories, but as usual, only flashes and blurs persist. He remembers gray - there’s always so much gray. But otherwise, nothing. He can feel something missing in the twist of his stomach, something floating just beyond his reach. A dull throb causes him to finger the slightly raised bump at the back of his head.

When he stands up, he exhales shakily and has to concentrate to steady his feet.

“God damn it, Scott,” Stiles whispers, moving to pull the comforter over the sleeping boy's bare feet. He notices the creases and deep lines that color Scott’s face, notices how he’s aged so much in just the past few months. 

Stiles had always been there to take the extra load off of Scott’s overburdened shoulders, been the one to help him through his new life, new responsibilities. But now… now he can’t even do that. And still he knows that Scott will always be there, and sometimes he wishes that he'd take care of himself first, be selfish for once. 

“I seriously don’t deserve you,” Stiles mumbles with a resigned sigh before walking out and closing the door carefully behind him.

The house is quiet, save his soft footsteps across the carpeted hallway. He pauses briefly at the old family photo hanging beside his dad’s bedroom and smiles at the happy trio staring back at him.

“Hey mom,” he starts, unhooking the photo from its place and sliding down against the opposite wall. “I guess it’s been a while since we’ve talked.”

He lets the silence seep in, lets the air around him communicate his unspoken thoughts. His fingers begin to tremble and he can feel his heart beating heavily in his temples.

“I just don’t know what to do anymore.” He inhales deeply and leans his head back against the wall. “One second things are fine, and the next, they’re spiraling out of control. I used to have moments, days, and weeks even, of hell to fight through, but then it would end and there’d be peace, at least for a little while. But this… it’s beginning to take control and I don’t think I’m strong enough. How did you do it for so long?”

Stiles stares at the picture for a little while longer before a thought crosses his mind. Carefully hanging the family portrait back on the wall, he bounds quickly down the stairs and into the living room. He crosses over to the piano and grabs the prescription bottle, clumsily shaking a pill out into his open palm and tossing it into his mouth. The faucet squeaks to life when he steps into the bathroom, filling his cupped hands with water. He takes a generous gulp and uses the rest to wipe his face, pushing his hair back out of his eyes. Looking up, Stiles sees himself in the mirror and studies the image for the first time in a long while. His hair has grown a bit longer, but otherwise, he’s almost proud of how normal he looks. It’s a small comfort to know that, at least from the outside, no one could probably guess at the mental torment he was being subjected to day after day.

Walking back to the living room, Stiles wonders briefly about Derek and where he would have gone after the incident. To be honest, Stiles had missed having him around, especially as things had started going haywire. He always seemed to know what to do, and there was always that sliver of hope that Derek would find some way to fix things. It didn't always work out, but at least he tried, and sometimes that was enough to help everything else fall into place. And today, Derek had surprisingly taught him something about himself, about a way to empty his heart into the space around him.  

He takes a seat at the piano with both feet on the pedals to mute and sustain. His left hand begins to rock steadily between two chords that strike a somber tone. The melody envelops him, gliding wistfully across his skin. His heart begins to beat in time with the music, the rhythm penetrating deep into his body. Closings his eyes, Stiles opens his mouth and begins to sing.

_“My heart is broken,_

_somebody fix it,_

_my walls are closing in.”_

His voice is raspy, choked by the emotion suddenly racing through his veins.

_“Caught in a deep hole,_

_stuck at the bottom,_

_trying to reach for… help.”_

“Stiles…”

_“Slow the clock that’s ticking loud,_

_I feel that time is running out-”_

“Stiles, stop.”

_“-and all that’s left to do is let it wind… down…”_

“Seriously, Stiles, please.”

_“Where do I even start?_

_To pick it up when it’s falling apart._

_Where do I even start?_

_Why does it seem so har-”_

Stiles freezes when Scotts grabs his hands, enclosed fists hovering inches above the keys. He feels the arms on either side of his head shaking and can hear the shallow breaths behind him. For just a moment they stay locked like this. Eventually, Scott leans forward to rest his forehead on top of Stiles and brings his arms in, hugging him tightly. The dampness on Stiles’ neck triggers a burn in his own eyes.

“Scott…”

Dropping his hands and turning around, Stiles' entire body seizes up and he thinks he can feel his heart physically break at the sight. He recognizes the frustration as Scott tries to blink back the tears, the quiver of his lips as he opens and closes his mouth. Up close the pain glazed across his wide brown eyes is raw and unapologetic and it hurts Stiles in a deep and visceral way.

“Those words...I can’t, I’m sorry, Stiles,” he mutters. “It hurts too much see you like this, and the music... even upstairs I could physically feel the pain, the fear, the-”

“It’s okay, Scott. It's okay.” Stiles grips his shoulders firmly. Suddenly exhausted, he bows his head down against Scott's chest. Scott rubs his back gently, but neither of them have the strength to stay upright. They eventually break and fall backwards onto the couch. 

“Man, we’re such a mess,” Stiles grumbles, sliding both hands down his face, and Scott laughs. “I think I've cried more times this past month than I have in the past ten years.”

“Whatever, man, real men cry.”

Stiles smiles at that. “The manliest of men. That’s us.”

A distant howl causes both of them to turn towards the window, but it fades quickly into the other sounds of the night. 

“Stiles, what are we going to do?” Scott says after a long pause.

“What do you mean?”

“I can’t… I can’t lose you, Stiles. I don’t know what I’d do if you weren't here with me. And right now, I just feel so helpless. Especially when I can’t even be around when you need me, like today.”

“You don’t have to protect me, man. It’s not your responsibility.” Stiles shakes his head and makes to pat him on the back. He’s a bit stunned when Scott swats his hand away.

“Jesus christ, Stiles, that’s not the point. I want to help you, I _need_ to. If not for you, for myself.” Scott leans back into the cushion with a groan, propping his feet up onto the coffee table. “Things were just starting to go back to normal. Or at least as normal as our lives could get. I thought the Darach was finally the end of it, and for a while I really believed it. It’s just… it’s just not fair.”

“What?” He turns to look at Scott, still in mild shock.

“That all this shit keeps happening to you and your dad. And all of it… all of it’s really my fault…” Scott’s voice tapers off at the end. Stiles hardly contains an eye roll, and the tension is instantly gone from his shoulders.

“For the last fucking time Scott, none of this is your fault.” He punches him lightly. “Technically, I’m the one that convinced you to come look for dead bodies with me in the woods that day. So I should be the one apolog-”

“Let’s both just stop, then,” Scott interrupts, with a slight twist to his lips.

“Yeah. We both suck.”

“But we suck awesomely.”

Stiles snorts and now Scott’s rolling his eyes.

“Did you just-”

“I’m sorry, but you walked right int-”

“Yeah, I know. Whatever.” Scott crosses his arms, but he’s smiling, and it all feels alright, feels like it should.

Stiles cocks his head, scratching lightly at the bruise.

“So what happened, actually?”

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t really remember how I ended up back here. I was out eating with Derek, and then... I woke up next to you.”

“Ah. Well, Derek called me as soon as you started freaking out, right about when school ended.” Scott pauses with a contemplative look. “You know, come to think of it, I’ve never heard Derek sound so distressed. He’s usually so… you know, calm.”

Stiles tries not to dwell on it for too long. “Well this is the first time he’s seen me go all Shutter Island on him. Makes sense, I suppose.”

“Hm,” Scott considers. “Anyway, I rushed over as quickly as I could. You were lying on the curbside, clawing at the air and-” he winces at the memory. “-sobbing almost. We carried you to Derek’s car and got you back here as fast as we could. And then I just sat with you until you eventually calmed down. We haven't told your dad, didn't want him to have to worry unless it got much worse.”

Stiles looks at him appreciatively.

“Derek stayed until you fell asleep, but then he left, saying that he had to go check on something.”

“Interesting.”

“Yeah..." He clears his throat and when he speaks again, his voice is strained. "Hey Stiles."

“Whats up?”

“Why don’t you want the bite?” Scott doesn't turn to look at him, but keeps his eyes focused on the far wall.

"What makes you think that I don-" 

"Derek mentioned it." 

“Oh, I see. I…” He feels a strange, faint echoing in the back of his mind, a barely audible sound, as he scrambles for the right words. “It just doesn't feel like the right thing to do. For me. Not right now at least.”

Scott nods, but doesn't look satisfied.

“This is going to sound weird,” Stiles continues. “But I think there’s something I’m supposed to do with this, with whatever is going on with me right now. It sucks because I can never fully remember what happens, but I get this feeling, this pull in my stomach and a buzzing in my head, that I need to do something, that I'm _missing_ something.” He glances over at the prescription bottle he left on the piano. "Maybe I need to just let this ride for as long as I can, while I'm still somewhat sane."  

Scott contemplates this, his brows furrowed.

“As far as diseases go, this doesn't sound normal, or natural. Or like this is a good idea at all.”

Stiles sighs and sinks further back into the couch.

“It never is.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Deaton is silent for a few minutes, chin resting on an open palm and fingers tapping against his skin. “He doesn’t want the bite, does he.” It’s more of a statement than a question.
> 
> Derek shakes his head. “And if he doesn’t want it-”
> 
> “-his body won’t accept it.”
> 
> “And he’s dead either way."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again for checking this out! Let's see where this one goes. I'm enjoying writing it so far.
> 
> *As a note (whoa inception), I'm going through the chapters every now and then and updating, adding, and editing as I see fit, so if you see a new update but the same number of chapters, that's probably what's going on. Blame my OCD.

The subtle whiff of mountain ash at the front door startles Derek, even though he knows it’s coming every time.

“Hello, I’ll be out there soon,” calls a voice a few turns back from the entrance.

Derek shuffles around in the waiting area, noticing the slight change in decor. New photographs of local wildlife had been framed and hung all around. He grins at the largest one, a pack of wolves now basking in the warm glow of the setting sun.

“Ah, Derek, what brings you here this afternoon? It’s been a while.”

“Hello, Alan,” Derek nods as Deaton strolls into view from the back room. “I’ve been away for a few months.”

“Right, right, to see Talia, correct? How is she?”

Derek stiffens, momentarily forgetting how connected the vet used to be with his family. He doesn’t bother questioning how he knows.

“Good. She’s… good,” he says slowly. His shoulders relax with a sigh. “It was nice. To see her again. I learned a lot.”

“I see,” Deaton says. “That’s wonderful to hear." He busies himself with a couple of papers at the printer. "That’s not why you’re here, though, is it?”

“No, not exactly.” Derek pauses, scratching at the back of his neck. “But I do want to talk to you about it later when I get the chance. She told me something that’s really changed my entire perspective on… well, everything.”

Deaton nods with a knowing look.

“In any case, I wanted to talk to you about Stiles.”

“Stiles? What about Stiles?”

“I’m sure you’ve heard about his…”

“Ah yes, unfortunately, I have. His father called yesterday, asking if I knew of anything that could help. I regrettably had to tell him that I am no doctor of the human mind, only of animals and, every now and then, the supe-”

“The supernatural,” Derek says, taking an unconscious step forward. “That’s why I’m here."

"You think there's something supernatural about all of this?" 

"It might be a long shot, but... I have my inklings." 

Deaton raises his eyebrows, eyes flashing with intrigue. “Go on.”

“I was with Stiles a few hours ago when he started, well, freaking out, for a lack of better words.”

“Hallucinating.”

“...Right. Hallucinating. For a moment, he didn't even seem to recognize me. He was panicking and flailing, and then tripped backwards over a curb. All of a sudden his body stilled and he was just kind of staring straight up from where he was lying on the ground. His eyes were slightly glazed over, but I could hear his heart beating faster and faster. And then-” He looks up abruptly, brows creased as a thought runs through his mind.

“And then?” Deaton prods. Derek looks back at him and shakes his head, blinking out his thoughts.

“Sorry.” He coughs roughly to clear his throat. “He suddenly started grabbing at the air and shouting. He was calling out... calling for his mother.”

“Interesting,” Deaton murmurs, his expression unreadable. “And you think there’s something supernatural about all of this because...?”

Derek sighs and scrubs a hand across his face. “I know it doesn’t sound like it, but, he said something briefly about the disease interacting with the ‘open door in his mind’ while we were eating. I forgot his exact words, but I’m sure you know what I’m talking about.”

“I’m familiar.”

“And the things he started mumbling, before Scott finally arrived and we got him into my car, were strange.”

“Strange?”

“ _I’'m sorry, this is all my fault. I'm sorry._ ” Derek says slowly, letting his tongue roll heavily over each word.

“ _I'm sorry_ …” Deaton repeats quietly, staring intently past Derek. He turns to him with an inquisitive glance. “You have a theory, don’t you?”

“It just doesn't make sense. The timing of all of this doesn't make sense.”

“How so?”

“The symptoms of this _frontotemporal dementia_." Derek starts pacing, each footstep falling heavily against the linoleum. "It’s true that in rare cases it can affect teenagers early, but Stiles’ mother didn't develop any symptoms until her late 30s. And they were gradual, slow, over the course of years. Hallucinations, night terrors, dissociative behavior, yeah it was all there, but hardly all happening at the same time.”

“You seem to know a lot about Claudia," Deaton muses. 

“I did some research.”

Deaton doesn’t respond, but looks somewhat impressed.

“In any case-” Derek rushes onward, feeling mildly flustered. He’s not sure why. “-to have all of this happen right after his experience with the Nemeton… With the _gateway_ to his mind open-”

“I see what you're getting at.” Deaton interrupts, tilting his head in apparent understanding. “You think that someone is _planting_ , so to speak, this dementia in Stiles’ mind as a sign of some sorts?”

“Not just anyone.”

“You think it’s his-”

“-mother. Exactly, yes. Well, no, not exactly.” Derek growls in frustration. “Kind of. I don’t think it’s actually his mom, but some unlocked memory that’s manifesting itself in this world.” He sighs, taking a few steps back and sitting down. “I think it’s connected to his guilt. Scott mentioned it once.”

“I see. That’s a very interesting theory, Derek, and I do have to say, you have a surprisingly compelling argument, despite having little to no evidence.”

Derek snorts, crossing his arms across his chest. “But?” There’s always a _but_ with Deaton. “You don’t think it’s possible?”

“To be completely frank, Derek, I’m in the camp that anything is possible, and given what we know Scott, Allison, and Stiles did that day, it all sits well within the realm of possibility. There’s just another consideration.”

“What?”

“What if it really is just an illness? An accurate, _medical_ diagnosis?”

“Well…” Derek lowers his gaze, absentmindedly picking at the loose frays of his jeans. “At the end of the day, it's all pretty much the same, isn’t it?” 

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, CT scans don't lie. Physically, parts of his brain are showing signs of-” He almost hisses out the word. “- _atrophy_. Whatever the cause, his body is reacting.” Derek looks up and hardly recognizes the tinge of sadness in the doctor’s normally stoic expression.

“And if this is really all because of the Nemeton?”

“Then there might at least be a chance to save him. _To close the door._ " He pauses, pulling a loose thread out with a  _snap_. "The alternative… well, there’s really no alternative. He’ll die otherwise.” His voice is gruff, saying the grim possibility out loud for the first time.

Deaton is silent for a few minutes, chin resting on an open palm and fingers tapping against his skin. “He doesn’t want the bite, does he.” It’s more of a statement than a question.

Derek shakes his head. “And if he doesn’t want it-”

“-his body won’t accept it.”

“And he’s dead either way,” Derek says, wincing even before the words leave his mouth. He avoids Deaton’s gaze, who considers him for an uncomfortably long moment.

“Derek, please don’t take this the wrong way, but I never took you as someone who cared that much about Stiles.”

Derek looks up, a mixture of pain, amusement, and frustration in his expression catching Deaton off guard. It melts away in a blink.

“My mother said that my family didn’t just live in Beacon Hills.” His voice is steady, almost back to its normal timbre. “We protected it and the people around us, especially those who fought alongside us, who were there for us.”

Deaton nods with a slight smile playing at his lips. Derek turns towards the window, where the last strands of sunlight cast the glass in a rosy glare.

“And Stiles has always been there.” 


End file.
